Frozen Heart: Defiance, #1

1

I was riding my girlfriend’s strap-on when she told me to move out.

Six weeks later, I’m living on the streets. I wish we’d split up in the summer. Edinburgh in winter is fucking cold. There’s no snow, but the icy wind is blowing straight through my thin trench coat. Oh yes, did I mention my ex also threw away all my stuff when I didn’t collect it immediately? Hell, I didn’t have anywhere to live yet, I was staying at friends’ houses mostly. There was no space to put a dozen cardboard boxes. So, she threw it out without telling me. Bitch.

I don’t even know why we were still together. I should have moved out ages ago. I guess it became a habit, living together, her paying the rent, me paying for everything else. Sleeping together. Fighting. Hurting. Bruising, occasionally.

Now I’m without a girlfriend, without a flat, without a job. At the beginning, I took my laptop to cafes and pubs to use their free Wi-Fi but, after a while, the money I spent on drinks was more than the money I earned with my freelance translating. It’s a dead job. Nowadays, people use the internet to translate their stuff. And the quick birth certificate translations I get through the agency don’t pay enough to survive on. Now my laptop is at my friend Ali’s house, where I stayed for a week until her parents came for a visit. For a whole fucking month. I should be grateful that I could sleep on her sofa for as long as I did, but it hurts that I’m now sitting on a cold park bench while my friends are in their flats and houses, warm, cosy, happy.

My two other friends here in Edinburgh are saying that I could stay with them again, but one of them’s got a baby and no space, and the other has OCD. I stayed at her place for a night, but I saw how stressful it was for her to have someone else in her sanctuary, so I wouldn’t want to do that to her again.

I should have made more friends. Three friends, that’s all I’ve got. My girlfriend didn’t like me spending time with other people, especially women. She was always the jealous type but, at the beginning, I found it endearing. It made me feel special. Now, I wish I’d seen those signs for what they were. I should have left her long ago, on my terms, with a new place to live sorted out and a moving van to take my stuff there. Instead, the opposite happened. She threw me out and now I’m lost, drifting while trying to find my feet.

Maybe I’ll get a place in the hostel tonight. I sigh and watch my breath slowly disappear into the morning air. The sun is trying to break through the hanging clouds and its meek light is touching the frosty grass around me. I’m in the centre of town, on a strip of park running right along busy Princes Street. From here, I can see the old town, its tall stone houses that huddle together on the volcanic rock, leading up to the imposing castle at one end and down to the parliament on the other. It’s a beautiful view, one that every tourist captures when they come here. Even now, early in the morning, they are everywhere, conquering the city for themselves, outnumbering the locals on their way to work.

A fine mist covers the city, but it’s not raining. Yet. It’s true what they say about Scottish weather. It’s terrible. It makes you really appreciate the sun when it can be bothered to shine a little. At the moment, it’s still fighting for dominance with the clouds. Maybe later.

I watch people hurry by me, not sparing me a second glance. Dark coats, gloves, and in the case of the less fashion-conscious, woollen hats. They’re all dressed for winter, even though they’ll soon be in their warm offices, working away like the busy bees they are. I’ve never been one to work nine to five, but right now, I crave it. Better than sitting here, not doing anything.

I sigh and get up, shaking my frozen legs. Maybe sitting on a cold bench wasn’t the best idea. But there are not enough tourists here yet to make begging worth it.

I hate it. I fucking hate it. Never thought I’d be begging for money. I’ve got a university degree – which also got me into debt, so there are no savings that could carry me over.

I have an overdraft, debts and no cash whatsoever. I thought about selling my laptop, but it’s the only way I might still be able to find work again. For now, begging is the only way to survive. Two quid is enough to get me a few hours’ warmth in a café with a hot drink. Luckily, they let me in, unlike some of the other rough sleepers. I don’t look homeless yet, and hopefully I don’t smell it either. I give my armpits a doubtful sniff. Could be worse. The church I stayed at last night didn’t have a shower, but if I get a space in the hostel, I’ll be able to have a quick one tonight. Using their totally masculine smelling menthol shampoo. But I’m not one to be choosy right now. Even if I smell like a fifty-year-old guy with dandruff.

At the hostel, I’ll also get to give my clothes a quick wash. I’ve got a few more tops and one pair of jeans stored with Ali, but I’m trying to keep them for when my current ones start falling apart. I’m planning long term now. At the beginning, I thought it would only be a night or two until I’d find somewhere to stay. But then I missed an appointment with the council because the bus broke down, and now they’re not seeing me as a priority. They told me I could move in with my parents again. Yeah, as if that’s going to happen. They threw me out when I was sixteen, so I don’t think they’d be pleased to take me in now. Maybe they won’t even notice if I don’t call them for Christmas this year. I’m certainly not going to spend any money on phoning them if I could spend it on a hot chocolate.

A drop of rain lands on my cheek. The sun has lost its battle. I better move, otherwise all the sheltered spots will be gone. Beggars can be choosy.

I grab my backpack, grimace at the dirt it’s covered in, and head towards the Royal Mile, where it’s easiest to get noticed by tourists.

I keep my head down. I pretend I’m not, but I’m ashamed.

I find a spot in a covered archway close to the parliament. There are not many tourists here yet – most go to the Castle first before they head down to Holyrood Palace and the parliament – but sometimes the politicians and civil servants like to do a good deed on their way to work and give me a few pennies. That’s what I learned straight away: the richer the person in front of me, the less they will put into my bowl. They only do it to feel virtuous, like the good samaritans they certainly are not.

The rain is getting heavier and a few drops find their way onto my clothes, but it’s not bad enough yet to venture away from the Royal Mile. This is the most lucrative spot in the entire city. I grimace. Lucrative, what a strange word to use. It’s almost like I’m looking at the begging like a business, but that’s just wrong. This is only to carry me over until I get my next council appointment and hopefully end up on their list of emergency accommodation. I still can’t believe they’re not giving me any support. I always thought that people living on the streets only had themselves to blame. That they didn’t want help or couldn’t be bothered to ask for assistance. Now, my opinion on that has changed. I want help, but nobody is giving it to me, no matter how much I ask for it. I shudder when I remember the cold, uncaring eyes of the woman at the council. She didn’t care that my bus had broken down. She didn’t care that I had nowhere to go. She just gave me an appointment and made me feel like I should be grateful to only have to wait for six weeks. She’s probably sitting in her cosy office just now, looking forward to going home tonight and relaxing in her warm living room. Meanwhile, I’ll be freezing my arse off, unless I get a spot in the hostel. In the discarded newspaper I found yesterday, it mentioned snow being expected for the coming days.

More hostels and churches offer beds for the homeless during the winter, but there’s still not enough spaces. Someone always has to stay outside, and it’s been me several times already. At the beginning, I tried to be nice and let older people move in front of me in the queue, but that altruism is waning quickly. After a sleepless night on a park bench, a grateful smile from a little old lady does nothing to make me warm again. Or dry.

I wrap my arms around my chest, making myself a smaller target for the cold wind that's started to push through the archway. It's a wind channel. Great. No wonder there was nobody else sitting here already.

I peek up at the sky. Dark clouds are gathering above me. I'm not sure if I should be hoping for rain or for snow. Both make the ground wet. Both bring cold that will seep into my bones. I'd love me some sun, but right now, all I can hope for is that these clouds will pass, driven away by Edinburgh's strong sea winds.

Someone drops coins into my bowl and I hurry to look up and smile, but they've already disappeared into the crowd. Good. I hate looking at the people who give me money. They make me feel naked, exposed, dirty. I much prefer for them to stay anonymous.

I lean forward and check the bowl. Not coins. Stones. They actually threw tiny pebbles in there!

My cheeks heat in indignation. As if it wasn't humiliating enough to sit out here in the cold, no, someone thinks it's funny to put rocks in my bowl. I take them out, revealing the three one pound coins already in there. Two of them are from yesterday. I always try and keep some money behind so it looks as if people have thrown money in my bowl. Somehow, that makes other people add to it. Some kind of weird psychology, I guess, but it also makes me feel better, even though I know that it's not new money.

Three pounds. That's going to buy me a sandwich and a hot tea later on, unless I'm responsible and keep two coins for tomorrow. Then, I'll not even have enough for a coffee.

I grimace and continue to look at the sea of legs rushing past me. They're all full of purpose, rushing towards work or to go sightseeing, who knows? But they all have a destination. I don't. All I can do is sit here and hope that someone will be kind enough to give me a few pennies.

My stomach growls. Fuck. It's going to be a long day.

2

Two polished leather shoes stop in front of me. I look up – and straight at the crotch of the guy bending down to me. I look away, trying to hide an embarrassed smile. This is as close to a guy as I’ve come in years. My ex was the jealous type. Which is why I only have three good friends left, all the others let themselves be bullied away. Good riddance. And male friends were taboo – she knew I was bisexual, not just into women like herself, so she saw them as a threat. When I spoke with a guy at a party… not pretty.

Why are you here? he asks, and I stare at him.

What do you think? This piece of pavement feels particularly nice, so I decided to sit here for a few hours.

He sits down next to me, hugging his long legs.

You’re right, this is quite comfortable.

I snort. This guy is crazy. If I could, I’d get up and walk away, but this spot has a roof and a steady stream of people. It’s too good to abandon because of a random weirdo.

What do you want? I snarl at him, trying to look as unfriendly as possible. Please leave, I’ve got enough craziness of my own to deal with.

Nothing, just taking a break. Walking up the hill is exhausting.

I give him a doubtful look. He’s fit, I can tell even though he’s wearing a thick leather jacket. There’s no way this is guy out of breath from a little stroll up the hill. Edinburgh is full of hills, so if you live here, you get used to it.

Please, go away, I try more politely this time.

Why? You haven’t answered my question yet.

Ehm, what?

I asked why you’re here, and sorry, but this really isn’t comfortable. He shifts and his shoulder touches mine in the process. I shiver. Human touch has become a rarity in my life.

Are you like a street pastor?

He laughs. Nah, I don’t do God.

I breathe a sigh of relief. I wasn’t in the mood for a sermon about what a sinful woman I am, thank you very much. I’ve had a few of that kind of people try and talk to me over the past weeks. When they offer that I can sleep in their churches for a night, I go with them, endure their speeches, trying to get done with it as soon as possible. If they only want to talk about God without offering me a place to sleep, I tell them to fuck off. Works most of the time.

If you haven’t noticed, I’m homeless. So if you don’t want to throw something in my bowl, please move on. You’re distracting.

He chuckles. I know, I can be very distracting. His smile could make any lesser girl faint.

I snort. Sorry, wrong word. I meant annoying. Now piss off.

You know you’re not very polite?

Why should I be? You’re invading my privacy.

If I throw something in your bowl, will you come and get a coffee with me?

Tempting, but that’s creepy. This guy is too friendly. And that usually means trouble. My trust in humanity has suffered a lot since my first night on the streets. Some